Page 122 of Freeing Hook

Nolan glances out the warden’s office window and into the hall. Even now, I know what he’s thinking. That every single boy walking the halls appears to have already been bent. I watch as little Nolan straightens his shoulders, unclasps his hands, and fists his fingers at his side.

The warden turns around and looks at Nolan, whose posture practically screams defiance, and even though I can’t see the warden’s smile writhe, I can see the way the shadow version of Nolan flinches underneath his stare.

The warden is still for a moment, then crosses the room and, with a creak, opens the door. He peeks his head out into the hall. “You, boy. Come here,” he says.

A moment later, Peter’s wraith enters. He’s bouncing back and forth between his heels and his toes.

“Shut the door behind you. And the blinds while you’re at it,” says the warden.

Something slimy slinks down my spine. Peter does as he’s told, then interlocks his fingers behind his back, still fidgeting, waiting.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” snaps the warden. He’s picked a pipe off his desk and set to lighting it. “Don’t make me order you around when you know what you’re to do.”

“Yes, Warden,” says Peter. He brings his hands to his shirt. It’s difficult to tell what he’s doing because of the lack of detail in the shadows, but when he pulls his shirt open, I realize he’s been unbuttoning it.

Peter’s shirt falls to the floor in a crumpled heap. He glides across the room, then places his hands upon the edge of the warden’s desk.

No, no, no.

“You there,” the warden says, puffing smoke from his pipe as he nods toward Nolan. “There’s a poker in the fire. Take it.”

Even Nolan’s wraith, wisps of ethereal darkness as it is, goes very, very still. “Why?” His voice is more defensive than inquisitory. “What did he do?”

“That’s irrelevant,” says the warden. “Now do as I say.”

“No.”

“No?” There’s amusement in the warden’s voice. “Alright. I noticed your mother was with child. But I knew that before she came to see me. I’m rather fond of her midwife, you see. Am over at her place often. You know, I’ve always wondered how she tells the difference between the skullcap and the wormwort. You know, one is given to laboring women to aid in the birth pangs. Are you aware what the other does?”

Nolan doesn’t answer.

“Thins the blood out. Would be disastrous if given to a laboring woman.”

Nolan is breathing hard now, his chest heaving.

“Would be a shame—if the two herbs were ever mixed up,” says the warden.

Young Astor doesn’t beg for mercy. He doesn’t even address the warden’s threat. He just turns to the hearth, slowly, methodically, and takes the poker, shuffling a few of the logs in the fire with it until they crackle.

When he approaches Peter, the poker in hand, the only evidence of his trepidation is the way the tip of the poker rattles. Peter doesn’t look at him. He just taps his fingers against the desk in the cadence of triplets. Like he’s playing himself a song in his head to distract himself.

“Now,” says the warden. “Do you know how to write?”

Nolan holds his chin up high. “Never saw much use for it.” It sounds like the sort of thing a father might say, something Nolan picked up from him before he passed away.

The warden tsks. “That won’t do. Our establishment prides itself in not only rehabilitation, but education. Now, it’s time for your first writing lesson.”

By the timethe lesson is over, my ears are wringing with young Peter’s whimpers. To his credit, he hadn’t screamed. Not even as the poker seared his skin. Not even as the warden forced Astor to rewrite the first letter of the alphabet over and over, claiming each attempt wasn’t good enough.

Only when Peter passed out, his little wraith of a body slumping headlong across the desk, had the warden declared their lesson over for the day.

Peter had revived soon enough. He hadn’t said a word to either of them. Just picked up his shirt, buttoned it back on over what must have been still open burn wounds, and left.

As soon as the door shuts behind Peter, Nolan drops the poker, which rattles as it hits the floor.

“What did he do?” Nolan demands, his voice high and shrill—he’s just a child after all. There’s the slightest whimper in Nolan’s voice. Like he’s longing for Peter to have done something awful enough to warrant such torture.

“Nothing,” says the warden, still smoking on his pipe.

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